


Paved Paradise

by vextant



Series: Happy Steve Bingo 2018 Fills [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Compliant, Discussion of Death, First Time, Gen, Happy Steve Bingo, I promise, Steve Rogers's Motorcycle, Steve thinks about his own happiness, it is happy though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-15
Updated: 2018-11-15
Packaged: 2019-08-24 05:31:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16633889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vextant/pseuds/vextant
Summary: Steve buys a new bike. An old bike, modded and then stripped bare and built back up from the bones. It's like him. It's perfect.—A fill for the prompt "First Time" for the Happy Steve Bingo 2018.





	Paved Paradise

 

The bike is  _ perfect _ . It’s a CB550, a true classic. Critter — the guy selling it to Steve — kept the chassis its original chrome and anodized everything — the frame, the fork, the whole dang thing gleams like it just rolled out of the factory for the very first time. The tank is a deep, dark blue, almost black. It’s beautiful. 

“You want the tour?” says Critter. 

Steve is smiling too much to make words, so he just nods. For a moment he’s worried that he’s too enthusiastic. He’s confronted with a sudden flash of what it’s like to meet a fan that is just so eager to meet Captain America that they start to adopt a whole different set of rules about how to act. He’s been on the receiving end of that, he doesn’t want to make Critter uncomfortable, so he tries to dial it down just a bit. 

“Well,” Critter sits astride it like an old friend. He’s a tall man, older, with a white horseshoe mustache and a shaved head. The sleeves of his grey t-shirt were torn off a while ago, and the pattern on the pocket says ‘HELL IS FULL, BITCH’. “Best I can tell, she’s one of the earlier models. 75, I think. The yokel I bought her from in ‘89 had everything modded to hell and back, so it’s little hard to tell, y’know. You ride vintage before?”

“Yeah, yeah. 42WLA.” Steve can answer that one with extreme confidence. “Decommissioned, obviously.”

“Classics man, I dig it. You still ride it?”

“No, it’s a— it’s a collection piece now.” Technically true, even if the collection is the Smithsonian’s. 

“Yeah, but you get it, though, you get it.” Critter stands, surprisingly spry for a man who’s got to be pushing seventy. “Older bikes, they need more’a that— they need more attention than these new monsters.”

Steve chuckles. “I don’t want a monster, sir, just a motorcycle.”

It’s the truth. Anything higher than 700cc’s would be pushing it into the range of “sporty” — and closer to something Captain America would ride. He doesn’t want something for Cap, not this time. This little Honda is perfect for just Steve. 

“That’s the right answer.” Critter laughs, and it’s more a friendly guffaw, the kind that grandfathers make because they’ve spent years and years laughing with their family.

Honestly, Steve he’d be more hesitant about the whole exchange. It’d taken him long enough to acknowledge why he wanted the bike in the first place, and then psyching himself up to come out to Vermont to take a look. Sam had helped him talk it out — and Steve respects him immensely for that, since he knows how obstinate he can be when he’s both for and against an idea. But he’s here now, Critter’s a great guy, and the bike is gorgeous. 

“Well, you can see here, handlebar’s upside down. Gives her a little more of a sleek look, you know? But if you don’t like it, you can always flip it round. Uh, what else— oh, seat’s not original, Deb — uh, my wife made that for my fat ass, here—”

As Critter makes his way around the bike, Steve notices that back of his shirt has the numbers for the National Suicide Hotline and the regional crisis center. 

Steve  _ really _ likes Critter. 

“You can take a seat if you like, son. You’re a bit taller than me, you might have to stuff it a little more. Get longer foot pegs, maybe.”

He swings his leg over and takes a seat. The cushion sinks just the right amount — not ratty, or overused, but well-made and well-loved. Handlebars are in just the right place — Steve would’ve never thought to have downturned handlebars, but it feels better to grip them, like he doesn’t have to lock his elbows to convince himself to keep his hands there. 

Steve bounces a little bit — not a full  _ bounce _ so much so as putting as much weight as he can in the seat, testing the suspension. He stops before he can get too rough though. He’s only just considered his own weight. 

“Not made of paper, kid, you’re gonna sit full weight sometime.” Critter grins. “I can see that smile you’re fighting.”

He wasn’t even aware of it, but it spreads across his face before he can slow it down. There’s a warmth in his chest, too. Steve ducks his head. “Yeah. I do like it.”

“Well, if you want her, she’s yours. I know you’ll take good care of her.”

“I think she’s going to be the one taking care of me.” Steve murmurs. He ghosts his hand over the handlebar, traces the ignition right in the middle. 

Critter tsks at him. “Son, you know can’t go thinking like that. This is a relationship, it’s gotta go both ways.”

Steve remembers a time when he used to think like that. When he and Howard Stark gutted a standard issue 42WLA and built it up themselves, modified it, polished it — Steve did the new lettering himself, because he’d never liked the spray-painted look of the Army stencil. Then he’d showed it off to Bucky, who jokingly asked where the rocket launcher was. Howard immediately took the bike back into his own custody for ‘adjustments’. 

He remembers  _ trusting _ his bike.  _ Knowing _ his bike.  _ His _ bike. 

“Yeah, I’ll take it.”  
  
  
  


 

Steve pays with the cash he brought. He tries to overpay on purpose, because he thought it’d be a nice gesture, but Critter’d rolled his eyes and told him “only dumbasses haggle up” and sent him on his way. 

He’d taken the bus there, which in retrospect was almost like tempting fate against his favor — but as he fires up the bike and rides it out of the driveway he’s glad he did. 

The first few miles are a little shaky. This bike’s older — not entirely, but it is, on a base level, a vintage bike — it’s still older than anything he’s ridden in quite a while. Even Cap’s “vintage” Harley is a replica with a state-of-the-art engine. This little Honda really is almost 50 years old. He takes his time to get to know it. 

It’s sound is understated. Steve likes it. It’s not quiet — it’s still a motorcycle, you’re going to know it’s coming — but it’s solid, subdued, powerful like time and strengthened by age.

They’re old friends by the time Steve gets back to the hotel to check out properly. Everything he brought with him fits in the neat little aluminium storage caddy under the seat. One of the front desk girls ask if that’s the new bike he told them about yesterday. He gives a bit of an awkward chuckle, because he’d hoped they’d forgotten about his gushing. 

Getting back onto the open road is like taking a breath of fresh air after spending years in a stuffy room. There’s just something about riding a bike.. It’s like flying, but being so low to the ground and feeling the road rocket beneath you makes it different. It’s power, but it’s not. It’s control. 

Steve feels in control. Because he could die — it’s very easy to on a bike, even for him — he could die, but he  _ won’t _ , because he won’t let himself. He’s going 60 on a half-century-old metal deathtrap, but he’s not worried. He’s confident, competent. He knows he can handle what the road throws at him, in both the literal and the metaphorical sense.

He’s so close to death. Physically, of course. By all means, without Cap he’d be another dead G.I. in some French ditch. Maybe he wouldn’t have even made it that far. He thinks that’s the reason he likes to ride this line, to casually remind himself that it could all end. It’s a really sobering thought. But he likes it. It reminds him of his team, his friends, everything they sacrifice; his country, which people fought for, and died for, and still do today to leave this Earth a better place than they found it. 

So the bike is more than a bike. He knows that. It’s a part of him — not so soon, not after only a single ride — but it will be, a part of  _ him _ , of  _ Steve _ . It feels nice to put it in words. To separate himself from the cowl and the shield and the pomp and circumstance. 

He feels like — like just himself. He just feels like Steve. 

He just feels alive. 

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed Vex Likes Motorcycles But Knows Next to Nothing About Them, The Sequel. 
> 
> > Steve's new bike is a 1975 Honda CB550, which is apparently a widely desired vintage bike  
> > the 42WLA is the Harley-Davidson Steve rides in The First Avenger, canonically a modified version of the standard-issue U.S. Army specifications  
> > The "cc" of a bike is its engine size = how powerful it is. Steve wants to tone it down for once in his life
> 
> Thanks for reading! If you're so inclined, [here](https://vextant.tumblr.com/post/180151163066/paved-paradise) is the tumblr post for easy liking and/or reblogging. :)


End file.
